Always a Queen
by LittleOtter
Summary: Susan takes Lucy shopping for her seventeenth birthday. Fluffy sisterfic, COMPLETE.
1. Once a Queen

A/N: You guessed it. I don't own Narnia. Or any of the characters, though I think Reepicheep would be mildly entertaining at school.

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The dulled silver bell above the door chimed obligingly as an especially strong gust of London wind hurried the two girls into the silent, cozy shop. Susan shut the door behind her, gratefully exchanging the heady scents of exotic perfumes and new clothing borne on a flooding wave of heat for the bluster of the freezing rain outside. Attempting to dry her face with a pocket handkerchief, she turned toward her sister. "You would think we might have picked a better day to shop!"

Lucy paid no attention. Wiping the fog off the glass with a glove, she peered at the blurry shape of the brightly lit bookstore across the street. "Come on, Su," she said, laying her hand on the doorknob. "It's only just over there."

"Oh, do let's wait until this lets up!" implored Susan. "These shoes are new!" She drew a tiny mirror from her bag. "Look at my hair!" she wailed, stuffing stray tendrils back up under her hat only to have more escape on the other side.

"You look fine," said Lucy. "Anyway, if anyone saw you looking awful, they'd know it was the weather. They have to deal with London too, remember?"

"You're terribly comforting," replied Susan dryly. A tiny smile did creep onto her face, though, and she dropped the mirror back into her bag.

"Ready?" asked Lucy, opening the door a crack.

"Really, Lucy," said Susan with playful sternness. "One would think that your shop is about to grow wings and fly away." Her sister made a little impatient noise as Susan glanced around at the store's wares: racks of fancy blouses, skirts, and full-length formal gowns glittering in the back.

Lucy could see where this was going. She closed the door with a reluctant sigh. The soft "snap" as it latched shut did nothing to improve her spirits.

Susan watched with a slight smile –a smile that on anyone less refined could only be described as mischievous. She took Lucy's arm and began guiding her towards the far end of the shop. "Now, dearest," she said. "I do believe you have a birthday coming up."

Lucy closed her eyes briefly.

"And," continued Susan. "I have it on good authority that one Andrew Shelley requested that you accompany him to the winter party at the Sinclair's last week."

Her younger sister's eyes snapped open. "Who told you that?" she demanded.

Susan's smile grew almost imperceptibly wider. "I have my sources."

Lucy recovered herself quickly. "Andrew is a slob and an immature nuisance. I wouldn't go with him if you paid me." Nevertheless, a slight flush crept up her pale cheek. Susan noted this and tucked the information away for later. "Anyway," Lucy said. "I don't go to parties. All those people in their stuffy clothes and affected manners…" She waved one hand dismissively, letting the sentence trail away into silence.

Susan cleared her throat, trying to push away the uncomfortable feeling that Lucy, with her crystalline judgment, was quite right in her assessment of the high life that Susan so prized. "Well," she regathered her thoughts. "You may not agree with me now –and really, seventeen is too young to be courting _seriously_, if you ask me–" (Lucy very wisely said nothing at this point) "—but someday, not so far off as you might think, some young man will sweep you off your feet and you will _want_ to go to parties and all those annoyances." She stopped walking and turned to face her sister. "Really."

"You sound like Mum," muttered Lucy. "And I'm not seventeen yet, not for another week."

"Close enough," replied Susan cheerfully as she began to flip through a towering rack of multicolored, shimmering finery.

Despite herself, Lucy felt the corners of her mouth quirk up, and she allowed herself to be caught up in the fun. For the next quarter-hour or so, the sisters exclaimed over the dazzling gowns, laughing and talking as they once had. At last, Lucy was sent off to the fitting room, four or five splendid formals in hand.

Susan sat down on a chair outside to wait. It had been far too long. Susan, to her mother's disapproval, had moved into a small flat closer to her job last August. She had seen very little of Lucy since then, and their relationship showed the change. She barely knew her youngest sibling anymore.

The move had been necessary, she told herself firmly. She needed to be closer to her work and to her life. Surely they didn't expect her to stay there forever? After all, Peter was doing very well at the Cambridge dorms, and Ed was getting ready to follow him. Susan gave a little smile of loving pride, for it had been she who had convinced both of her brothers to apply.

Lucy emerged then, nearly tripping over the hem of a shockingly frilly pink thing that Susan had selected. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and pulled a comically reproachful face at her sister. "I feel like a French poodle," she said.

Susan had to laugh. "It's not all that bad," she said. "That style of gown is quite à la mode these days." Her words fell sour, though, even on her own ears. Lucy wore what she –not some wealthy woman in Paris– considered to be beautiful; the idea of her carefree, impetuous sister forcing herself into the mold of the vogue was suddenly exceptionally distasteful.

As Lucy rustled away, horribly fashionable, it struck Susan that that was just what she had done. She stared at herself in the mirror opposite as if a stranger had replaced her reflection. Why _had_ she bought this hat? Now that she looked, there was nothing particularly attractive about it, other than the fact that it was on the cover of the latest catalogue laying open on the sales counter where she worked. And these shoes…they pinched terribly, and they had rubbed a rather bad blister on her heel. _Lion's mane,_ she reflected bitterly. _What have I become?_

But the moment passed. She smoothed over the fret and discontent with a practiced smile, and suddenly she was Susan Pevensie again: stunningly beautiful, fashionable, flirtatious, and independent. And –so long as she could conceal the lack of whatever Lucy possessed that gave her the ability to accept whatever life brought her with joy– it was enough.

A parade of gowns followed: a sweeping black full-length trimmed with satiny red that made Lucy look sinister and majestic (that is, until she viewed herself in the mirror and dissolved into helpless giggles), a deep midnight blue etched at the hem with frosty designs in silver that Susan liked but Lucy said didn't quite fit, and a delicate cream that wavered like mist when she walked but went terribly with her hair.

By this time, Lucy was more than a little discouraged, and anxious lest the bookshop should close before they got there. Despite her efforts to hide this for the sake of her sister, Susan noticed.

"How many more do you have in there, dearest?" she asked, looking at Lucy through the mirror.

Lucy didn't have to look. "Just one."

Susan smiled and brushed a loose thread off her sister's shoulder. "Then go on and try that last one, and then we'll go and look at that bookshop you wanted me to see. "

Lucy blushed that her thoughts were so easily read, but her eyes sparkled with gratitude and anticipation as she disappeared into the fitting room for the last time.

Susan sighed in regret as she sat back down. She and Lucy had always had different tastes, different temperaments, but she had hoped that she could show her sister a glimpse of her world, if only for this evening.

Lucy took longer changing that previously, and Susan was about to get up to see if she needed anything when the door opened. Susan rose to her feet, her lips parting slightly in a silent "O."

Her sister stood before her, draped in glimmering royal green. The neckline extended from shoulder to shoulder, embroidered in strange golden designs that stood out sharply on the dark fabric. The sleeves flared at the elbows, dropping about halfway to her knees. The skirt just brushed the floor, the pleats separating to reveal folds of rich golden cloth underneath. The waist was embellished with the same exquisite patterns as the neck, like the indistinct shapes of daffodils in the spring. Lucy had let her hair fall from the thick braid she had bound it in before they left, and now it floated in a cloud of rippling gold nearly halfway down her back as she turned to display the gown. Susan could only stare in wonder.

Lucy misunderstood her silence and flushed scarlet. "I know the style isn't all that fashionable," she began, speaking a little too quickly. "But I like it." Her gaze flicked briefly up to her sister's, vulnerable, defiant, and pleading all at once.

Susan found her voice. "Fashionable?" she breathed. "Lucy, it's…"she swallowed hard. "It's _perfect_."

"Do you think so?"

"Dearest, look at yourself!" Susan gestured toward the mirror. "You look roya-" She stopped abruptly and drew away slightly as she realized what she had been about to say.

The flash of pain that crossed Susan's face slammed into Lucy like an icy wave. "I'm sorry," she said instantly. She hesitated for a moment before turning away and murmuring, "I'll go change."

Susan stared numbly after her for a heartbeat before shaking herself awake. "Lu, wait."

Her sister turned around.

Susan's practical side took over as she grasped for words. "Does it fit?"

Lucy nodded mutely.

"You need a gown," Susan told her. "And…I think it should be that one."

A smile of uncomprehending delight spread across her sister's face like summer's dawning. "You mean you won't be ashamed to be seen with me like this?" she quipped.

Susan laughed, shattering the tension between them. "Well, I would, but you look so lovely that they wouldn't even see me next to you," she said, only half teasing. "That gown is _you,_ Lucy, and you look much better in it than in anything fashionable that I could pick out for you." She wrapped her sister in a warm hug. "Don't ever change."

Lucy smiled again, but it was tainted this time with a barely detectable note of sorrow.

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A/N: Reviews would be great. Even flames, if they aren't just flames for the sake of being flames. If you see anything that should be changed, please share. )


	2. Always a Queen

A/N: Thanks to all my reviewers! You guys are awesome. This is the second bit of a three part story, and the third part isn't _quite_ finished yet, but I should have it done as soon as Darth Real Life decides to give me a break and let me write. D

Oh, and I still don't own Narnia.

**Always a Queen**

Lucy shut the fitting room door behind her and sank down onto the bench with a sigh. "Susan," she whispered wearily.

Motherly and practical, her older sister had always seemed to bring out the best in others. Ever since their first return from Narnia, the former queen had been consistently using her abilities to understand people, showing them the talents that they didn't realize they had, casting light on the facets of their gifts with her own luminous encouragement. Lucy's musical abilities blossomed under Susan's admirations and criticism, and Edmund discovered a passion for law after she gave him a subtle nudge in the right direction. Her popularity was not solely for her beauty; she had a genuine gift for helping people feel better about themselves. Even now that she had renounced Narnia, she was Susan the Gentle, and all were heartened by her presence.

Except her. She had allowed her pain to push Narnia, Aslan, and then queen she had been out of her heart and her mind, and she was quickly learning that the vacuum in her soul once filled by a bright Lion could not be assuaged by any number of lipsticks and party invitations. She longed for more, but would not look back. So she thrust aside the queen and embraced in her place a painted shadow, a cruel parody of what she was meant to be, living in the moment and weeping only in the anonymity of darkness. And Susan Pevensie, whose love and support was the pole star by which others steered, was herself lost.

Lucy ached for her sister, watching helplessly as Susan had locked away the part of her that was still Narnian, ignoring any mention of the land beyond the wardrobe door. Lucy had, at first, tried to make her sister remember, somehow show her that the memories didn't have to hurt. Susan only became cold and distant, and Lucy had subsided to keep from losing her altogether. A tense peace reigned between the Pevensie siblings –of which Helen and James were blissfully unaware– and Peter, Edmund, and Lucy carefully avoided any mention of one topic around Susan.

Lucy stood abruptly, brushing aside her thoughts. It did no-one any good to brood.

She looked at her reflection in the mirror critically. The dress had gone over well, she decided. Not quite as well as she had hoped, but far better than she had feared, considering that it was made in almost the exact style as one of her favorite gowns in Narnia. True, the fabric had a distinct machine-woven feel, instead of the light, intricate texture of cloth woven by skillful dryad fingers, and it could not begin to compare to the ease with which ever her fanciest gown at the Cair fit, but it was by far more Narnian than anything she had ever seen in England.

She raised both arms, holding an imaginary bow, and drew back the invisible string.

The fabric stretched and tightened across her shoulders disapprovingly.

"Hmm," Lucy said aloud. _Alright,_ she thought, _so I will be engaging in no archery contests while thus robed._ She twirled a little, hopefully, and grinned widely at the result. While it lacked the versatility of her royal wardrobe left behind, the skirt was nearly perfect.

Without pausing for thought, she began the intricate steps of the Ilydaer, slowly at first, gaining speed as her feet remembered the pattern. She and Susan had learned the Narnian spring dance a few weeks after their coronation, and it had remained Lucy's favorite through the years of their reign. Memories flooded her as she danced faster and faster. She closed her eyes, and for one glorious moment , she was in a grassy clearing, surrounded by fauns and dwarves, centaurs and talking animals, naiads and dryads. The warmth of a paw or hand clasping her own was almost tangible; her own voice was melded with the high, clear tones of the fauns and the centaur's powerful resonance, singing her joy as the sun rose…

A gentle, yet insistent rapping on the door jerked her sharply back out of her reverie. Her startled reflection, breathless and disheveled, peered back at her.

"Lucy?" came her sister's voice, muffled by the barrier between them. "Are you coming?"

"Just a minute," Lucy called back.

"You've been in there nearly ten minutes. Do you need anything?"

Lucy blinked. That long? "Sorry, Su," she said through the door. "I'm coming."

Her sister's footsteps receded, and Lucy regretfully began to change. In a moment, the queen had disappeared, replaced by unremarkable, average Lucy. And yet…

Those brown eyes, still alight with the knowledge of who she once was, had looked out over a vast kingdom, had brimmed with tears of loss and of joy. That deep golden hair had been graced by a delicate silver diadem. Those hands had shaken with cold and fear as they stroked the remnants of _His_ mane on that longest of nights, and then grasped that same mane fully-grown, absorbing its living warmth in the morning's radiant glory – she never could remember if the brilliance emanated from the new-risen sun or from the Lion's joy. She was a Queen, once and forever, and she could no sooner forsake that vocation than fly.

Lucy squared her shoulders and lifted her head, taking a posture of which her etiquette instructor would have been proud, and went out.


	3. Bear it Well

A/N: Of course I don't own it! If I owned it, I would be rich! But I don't. And I'm not. Oh well.

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Susan laid the gown out on the counter carefully, looking out of the corner of her eye to make sure that Lucy was still looking at skirts in the farthest corner of the shop where Susan had told her to wait. She was, and was currently examining a black school-style skirt with her back to the sales counter. Satisfied, Susan turned her attention back to the clerk, a faintly bored looking girl tallying up the cost indifferently. She set down her pencil and read off the price.

Susan took it in stride - the dress was well-made; she hadn't expected it to be cheap - but she winced at the sound of Lucy's shocked gasp and purposeful footsteps. She had underestimated her sister's hearing in the silence of the shop. Nevertheless, she took out her wallet as if she hadn't noticed.

"Su, wait," came Lucy's voice in her ear as she handed several largish bills to the clerk. "_Wait!_"

Susan turned to her sister, smiling and determined. Lucy looked back at her, equally stubborn. "You don't have to buy this for me. I saw how it was made, and Mum and I could make something like it. You shouldn't spend this much on me!"

Susan listened politely, with just a hint of victorious glee. "And when will you or Mum find the time to work on it?"

The clerk broke in while Lucy was stumbling for words. "D'you want this wrapped, ma'am?"

"Yes, please," replied Susan.

"You can't afford this!" hissed Lucy.

"Nonsense," said Susan calmly. "That money has been saved for this purpose for a year now. You wouldn't deprive me of the pleasure of spending it, would you?"

Lucy could only gape.

Susan smiled again reassuringly. "My mind is quite made up, sister," she said, taking the expertly wrapped brown parcel from the clerk and placing it in Lucy's arms with a quick kiss to the cheek. "Happy birthday."

The remainder of the evening passed in a delightful blur for Lucy. They spent a considerable amount of time in the bookshop, revelling in the age-old scent of ink and paper. Lucy pointed out several titles that she thought Susan might enjoy, and ran a finger over the spines of one or two that the local library didn't stock with almost reverent longing. They perused some of the newer titles discreetly until the store clerk discovered them and asked sternly if she might be of assistance.

They discovered upon leaving that they were both ravenous, neither having supped before leaving. It was by then long after dinnertime, so the tiny restaurant that Susan selected was nearly empty. The sisters gave their order to the garçon and settled in to wait.

"Thank you," said Lucy with uncharacteristic shyness. "For the dress, and everything."

"You're welcome," Susan smiled. "We ought to do this more often, you and I. I'll take a day off work and come kidnap you from home."

"It's on the other side of London!" Lucy protested, laughing.

Susan grinned wickedly. "Distance shall not save you!" she proclaimed. "If I take it into my head to kidnap my sister, nothing will stop me!"

Lucy giggled midsip and nearly dropped her glass, coughing as water sloshed onto her sleeve and the worn wooden table. "Look what you've made me do!" she accused as soon as she was able to speak coherently, fixing Susan with a mock glare.

"Dreadfully sorry," Susan said meekly, handing Lucy her napkin to sop up the mess. "And how was your last term? You haven't said a word about it all evening."

Lucy shrugged noncommitally. "It was school," she said. "I thought that maths would be the death of me for the last few weeks."

Susan raised an eyebrow at the unusual exaggeration. "Really?"

Her sister smiled wryly. "It wasn't that bad, really. It's just that I didn't always understand Professor Cooper's explanations, and trying to read the book is like trying to listen to Edmund when he's on a rant about Parliament."

Susan half-smiled in sympathy. The seventh-year math books were indeed difficult reading. "It's finished now," she said comfortingly. "What about your other classes?"

"I loved Literature," said Lucy thoughtfully. "Have you read Beowulf?"

"I read it in my seventh year," Susan said.

"Isn't it wonderful?" Lucy asked, dark eyes sparkling. "You can almost _see_ the great hall!"

"I..." Susan responded lamely, startled by Lucy's sudden enthusiasm. Beowulf had been far too violent for her taste, stirring memories of screams and terror, though she hadn't been sure if they had arisen from her own world or from...elsewhere. "I liked the Shakespearean sonnets better," she said carefully.

Lucy made a face. "Yes, we have been reading those as well." She leaned forward conspiratorially. "Don't you think he's saying the same thing over and over?"

Susan laughed. "Maybe..."

Their soup came, then, and the conversation slowed. Dinner passed quickly, over all too soon, and Lucy insisted on paying for her portion. Susan's protests were quelled by an almost ferocious scowl from her sister, and she accepted her defeat without rancor.

The scene outside could have been taken straight from one of the more sentimental modern paintings of London. The afternoon's sleet had been replaced by delicate snowflakes, fluttering down like so many butterflies and scudding merrily along the pavement. People hustled along, bundled in knee-length coats and carrying umbrellas. Some, too, bore packages of varying shapes and sizes - last-minute Christmas gifts, perhaps, or groceries. Lucy caught her breath at the sight of a man with an odd, goat-like beard and a red woolen scarf: only her home-lonely heart, searching in vain for pieces of Narnia, as usual.

Susan stepped to the curb, hand raised for a taxi. "I don't like you riding all the way back to Finchely in this," she said, catching Lucy's elbow as her sister nearly slipped on the treacherous ice. "Do you need to be anywhere important tomorrow?"

Lucy's heart leapt in earnest. _Narnia!_ But she kept her expression carefully blank as she considered the question. "N-no," she said slowly. "But I need to catch the 10:00 train out of Frognal tomorrow."

Susan gave her sister a sharp sideways glance. "Really? Where are you going?"

"Me? Nowhere." Lucy sounded a little startled and . . . disappointed? "Jill and Eustace are taking a . . . a trip, and I'm going along on the first leg of the journey."

"Just you, hmm?"

Lucy flushed. "Well, no. Peter and Ed are going too. And Aunt Polly and the Professor." She said the words unwillingly, as if each syllable held the promise of pain.

Susan understood. Such a grouping meant only one thing. Her lips compressed forbiddingly, ice beginning to form in her warm grey gaze. "I see."

"Susan-" began Lucy, almost imploring, but her older sister cut her off abruptly.

"I'd rather not discuss it."

A taxi pulled up to the curb, and Susan stepped in with her customary aloof grace. Lucy clambered in behind her, miserable.

The cabbie twisted around in his seat to face them: "Where to, then?"

Susan hesitated and glanced at Lucy. "You'll be staying with me tonight?"

Lucy looked up, relief at the change of subject evident in her face. "Yes, please. That would be lovely."

Susan gave her address to the driver and settled in. "You can phone Mum when we get there," she told Lucy.

The ride passed in silence. Lucy, who knew from experience that she was still in disgrace, leaned against the door and drew a finger through the tiny droplets of condensation on the window absently. Susan would begin the conversation again when she was ready, she knew. It just might take a while.

She let her mind drift to other matters. She had been to Susan's flat before, of course, when her sister was moving in, but it had been filled with boxes then. If she knew Susan at all, the boxes would have been unpacked and discarded within a week of the move, and the flat would have been decorated according to Susan's own elegant taste. Lucy had yet to see it fully furnished.

The building in which Susan's flat was located was the result of a post-war building project that spanned most of London, and as such was remarkably new for its area of town. Faded scorch marks remaining on the brick walls of the older surrounding buildings left no doubt as to the reason for the placement of this particular apartment building. It appeared out-of-place to Lucy, a hastily-sewn patch on beautiful, though damaged, cloth. Still, she reflected as she followed Susan up the stairs, the patch had a certain beauty of its own.

Susan unlocked the door and allowed her sister to enter first. She flicked on the lights, enjoying the moment despite herself as Lucy rotated slowly to view the living room, an appreciative smile on her face. "It's perfect!"

Susan had chosen pale blue as her base color, accented here and there with white and splashes of yellow. A small couch faced the window, with two chairs placed to the side. The radio sat proudly in its place of honor on the finely carved table in the corner next to a vase of daisies.

"And who are these from?" Lucy teased, touching the petals.

"Never you mind," replied Susan mysteriously as she bent to remove her heels. She rubbed her feet ruefully and straightened. "May I take your coat?"

Lucy handed over the garment in question, still intent on absorbing every detail of the apartment's decor. "It really is perfect, Susan."

Susan accepted the compliment with a gracious smile and entered her spotless -though small- kitchen. "Tea?" she called over her shoulder, taking the kettle from its place on the back of the stove to fill it with water.

"Yes, please," Lucy replied. She didn't really want tea, not this late, but Susan was in her notorious Hospitable-Hostess mode, and it wouldn't do to disappoint her. She followed her sister into the kitchen.

Susan was busily setting out saucers and cups, spoons, the silver tea-cannister, the milk pitcher and sugar, all the little niceties that made tea an event, not just a beverage. A plate of fresh sugar cookies found their way onto the table, and a hot-pad in preparation for the teapot. Lucy stood in the doorway self-consciously, wishing to help but knowing it would not be permitted. Susan was happiest when serving others, and would defend her right as hostess fiercely.

"Turn on Auntie, would you, Lu?"

Grateful for something to do, Lucy hurried back to the living room to do battle with the ancient radio. A few moments of fiddling with flimsy antennas and turning of stubborn dials, and the voice of a BBC announcer, scratchy with static, issued forth. Satisfied with her success, she re-entered the kitchen.

Susan, having completed her labor of love, sat at one of the two chairs, waiting for the water to boil. Lucy plopped down into the other, just as the beginnings of an all-too-familiar song drifted in. She giggled suddenly. "Do you remember, at the Professor's, how the Macready would play this over and over again?"

"And poor Ed got so tired of it," Susan added, laughing. "Of course I remember. How can I forget, when it nearly cost us all our suppers?"

"Traumatic experience, that," Lucy agreed. "Especially with Edmund's dancing." She snickered at the memory. Ed, fed up with the constant repitition of the Macready's battered record of Canon in D, had begun an overdramatic dance (if it could be called such) involving many extravagent spins and flourishes and uncoordinated leaps into the air, complete with convulsive twitches every time the needle skipped. He'd had his siblings in tears of laughter, until the Macready entered unobserved and put two and two together. It had taken a good fifteen minutes of apologizing and the Professor's influence to pacify her.

Susan rose as the tea-kettle hissed insistantly from the stove. Measuring precisely the right amount of tea-leaves into the pot, she turned down the heat and left it to simmer. The scent of good, black tea filtered through the room, familiar and vaguely evocative of other times.

"So," Susan said as she sat back down. "Frognal at 10:00. Any other plans for the day?"

Lucy smiled and shook her head. "I'm on holiday, Su. I think a good book is probably in order, or maybe a walk. Or maybe something completely different that I haven't thought of yet. I'm sure I'll think of something." She paused. "What about you?"

"Working from 3:00 to 8:00 tomorrow," Susan said, looking at her hands. "And there's a party at David's that I may visit afterwards."

Lucy bit the inside of her cheek. It was a risk, but it was hardly fair to Susan for her not to take it. "Would. . . would you come with us tomorrow?" The words rushed out, tumbling over themselves in an effort to reach her sister. "It won't take long - we're only going as far as Paddington. You could be back by noon." Susan still said nothing. "Please, Su? For old time's sake?"

Those were the wrong words. Susan stood up a trifle too quickly and crossed to the stove. She took her time about turning off the heat and taking the potholder and tea-cozy out of the drawer.

Lucy watched with diminishing hope. "Su, we. . ." her voice broke. "We've had word from Narnia." Of all the reactions she had thought to recieve, the one she got was the most unexpected.

Susan turned around, an expression in her eyes that Lucy was hesitant to define. The despair lurking beneath Susan's normally composed features sent a shiver up Lucy's spine. It was the expression of someone who wants something more than anything else in the world, and knows she shall never have it. Susan's gaze was hollow, but something else sparked there. A fierce hunger, the slightest glimmer of hope. "When?" she whispered.

Lucy moistened her suddenly-dry lips. "Last week," she answered. "At the Professor's."

"What happened?"

"There was. . ." Lucy considered her words, "a man. He appeared out of thin air, just as we were finishing dessert."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing," answered Lucy truthfully. "He just stood there and looked at us. I don't think he could have said anything if he'd tried." She paused. "He was Narnian, you could tell that at a glance. His clothing gave it away. He was a king, too, or maybe a prince. . .there was something regal about the way he stood. I can't quite put my finger on it." She swallowed. "And he was bound."

"Bound?"

Lucy nodded. "With rope." She reconsidered. "A lot of rope. Peter and the Professor think that there was some sort of uprising, and they need help reinstating the rightful monarch." She cracked a smile. "Edmund started on about balance of power and foreign aid, of course."

Susan did not smile. She set the teapot down on the waiting hot-pad and sank into her chair. Without the teapot to hold onto, Lucy noticed that her sister's hands were shaking slightly. "What are we going to do?" Susan asked finally.

Lucy's heart jerked at the use of 'we.' "Jill and Eustace are going to use the Rings to get to Narnia. Peter and Edmund are going to the Professor's old house to get them early tomorrow morning, we'll all meet on the train, and Jill and Eustace will use the Rings sometime before they get to their school."

"There are a lot of ways that that plan could go wrong," murmured Susan, rubbing her hands distractedly.

"Yes," Lucy agreed softly. "But they'll get there with or without the Rings, if Aslan wants them there."

"How many Rings are there?" Susan asked abruptly.

A bit nonplussed at the question, Lucy frowned. "I don't know. Why?"

Susan's eyes flicked up to hers and away, and Lucy understood.

"No," she said gently. "We won't be going with them to Narnia."

"Why not? We could, if we wanted to. The door is open before us; it would be foolishness not to walk through!"

"The door is open, but not to us," said Lucy, her eyes flashing briefly. "Oh, Susan," she said. "We're too old. Don't you remember? This world is also our home, here, with Mum and Dad. I miss Narnia too - part of me will always be there - but he's sent us back for a reason."

"What reason?" The words were laced with venom, though Susan did not raise her voice. "'To know him better here?' We knew him there! We talked with him face to face! How could we possibly know him better?"

Lucy started to answer, but Susan wasn't finished.

"And if it's really all that much better here, why did he take us there in the first place? Why did he have to show us such wonderful things, give us such wonderful friends, if he meant all along to take it all back without warning, just when we were happiest?" She was crying now, though her voice was as level as it had ever been. She swiped the tears away and took a deep breath. "We were better off without him," she said dully.

Lucy's mind was swirling with outrage and indignant retorts. Her own vision was blurry with tears that she absolutely would not shed. _How_ could _she?_ With an effort, she pushed aside all the things she was aching to say. "So you won't be coming with us?"

"No."

And even as Lucy watched, the mask slipped back into place. She nodded once, slowly, as coolly formal as her sister. "Very well."

Susan raised the kettle, still steaming amiably. "Tea?"

Hours later, Lucy stared up at the ceiling, unable to sleep. They'd sipped their tea in silence before Susan had departed wordlessly to find some extra nightclothes and a change of clothes for the next day for Lucy, had readied herself for bed and disappeared into her room without so much as a 'goodnight.' She had also left the dishes unwashed: yet another sign that she was still upset. Lucy could see them from her bed on the couch, gleaming reproachfully at her in the moonlight. She'd toyed with the idea of washing them herself, but felt vindictive enough towards her sister to turn her back to them.

And now she couldn't sleep. She stared out the window over London, myriad tiny lights flickering in the darkness. Susan's words echoed in her thoughts, repeating endlessly like a scratched record. _Does she really believe that? Or is it just her way of dealing with the homesickness?_ Then, more disturbingly, _Could she be right?_

"No!" she spoke the thought aloud, jerking upright. "No." She leaned forward, drawing her knees up under the coverlet and resting her forehead on her hands. It was worth every second of homesickness.

Her hair fell forward around her face as she dropped her hands and bent her head forward. _Oh, Aslan,_ she thought desperately. _Please forgive her. She doesn't mean it; she's just tired and confused and lonely. She wouldn't say any of this if she could really remember what it was like. What _you_ were like._

Silence followed, along with the terrible realization that Susan did, indeed, mean every word of what she had said. Susan had left Narnia behind, and Lucy could do nothing about it on her own.

_But I have redeemed traitors before._

"Then you'll help her?" whispered Lucy to the silence.

Nothing. Then, _If she will accept it, I will redeem her._

"She'll never accept it. She's already rejected you."

She could almost feel the low growl. _That is part of_ her _story, not yours_.

She nodded slightly in acceptance, raising her head. She laid back down on the couch, finally closing her eyes. The last thing she was aware of before sleep's oblivion was a flash of muted gold, and a wild, sweet fragrance. . .

The next morning dawned icy-cold and clear, and Lucy awoke before Susan. She stayed beneath the blankets for as long as she deemed reasonable, given the chill of the room and the earliness of the hour - the clock on the wall said 6:15. Last night's dishes still sat dirty on the counter, painfully out-of-place in Susan's spartan kitchen. "All right, all right," she grumbled at them, and rolled off the couch. Taking up the quilted bathrobe and slippers that Susan had left for her, she tied her hair back and padded into the kitchen.

Trying to be as quiet as possible, she eased on the tap for the hot water. Any hopes of secrecy were then shattered: the pipes had evidently partially frozen and were making that fact known to the world with a cacophony of squeals, shrieks, and ominous clunks from somewhere in the plumbing. The faucet spluttered briefly, then gave up the battle. Lucy had her hot water, but it would be nothing short of a miracle if Susan had slept through all that.

She filled the sink, and after adding soap, began to wash the teapot and cups - a matching set, painted with stylized sunflowers and blue skies dotted with fluffy white clouds. There weren't many dishes, but it was nice to have them done.

Just as she finished the drying, Susan emerged, rubbing at her eyes blearily. She stared at Lucy for a moment, dazed. Lucy smiled back cheekily. "Good morning, sunshine!"

Susan groaned and sat down at the table. "Stars above, Lu, do you have any idea what time it is?"

"6:30," offered Lucy helpfully.

Susan blinked up at her like a baleful owl. "What are you doing up? You're on holiday, remember?"

"I was seized by a sudden desire to do the dishes."

Susan grimaced. "Well, kindly restrain yourself next time."

"Wish I heard that more often," Lucy remarked dryly.

"Believe me, you will, if you keep getting these urges at dawn," returned Susan, settling into the familiar routine of their early-morning banter. "How's toast sound for breakfast?"

"Fine. Where do these go?"

Susan gestured towards a cupboard and Lucy put away the cups. The next few minutes were spent in silence as the two girls worked side-by-side to prepare their morning meal. Neither spoke until both were seated at the table, eating toast browned [ijust[/i right with [ijust[/i the right amount of margarine and jam spread on top.

"Listen, Lucy. . .about last night. . . I'm sorry."

Lucy chewed slowly and swallowed, setting the remainer of her toast down on her plate so as to give Susan her undivided attention.

Susan sighed and looked down. "I said a lot of things that I shouldn't have, and I apologize."

"You mean. . .you'll come with us?" Lucy asked, not daring to hope.

"No," said Susan carefully. "And I haven't changed my mind, either. But. . . I still shouldn't have said those things, and I'm sorry. I know what Narnia means to you."

Lucy smiled immediately. Not what she had hoped for, but still a step in the right diretion. "You are forgiven, Su. I'm sorry, too."

"You didn't do anything!" said Susan, surprised.

"Maybe not, but I thought it," said Lucy wryly. "I apologize as well."

Susan raised an eyebrow. "Well, then. You are forgiven for whatever it was you managed not to do."

Lucy snorted with laughter, and the remaining tension disappeared.

They cleared up, this time not even trying to be quiet. They talked, sang snatches of random songs at the top of their lungs, and shrieked with laughter as a few well-aimed soap-suds morphed into a full-fledged waterfight. And then they had to clean up again.

"Well," Susan sighed once they could both talk again. "Do you think we should start getting presentable?"

"I suppose so," replied Lucy without much motivation. They had two hours in which to get ready to leave, and she was in no hurry. She took a handful of her bathrobe and squeezed it out - soapy water dripped onto the floor without much coaxing. She flicked the excess at Susan.

"Let's not start that again," objected Susan, raising her hands to defend herself.

Lucy looked around at the kitchen, back to its naturally pristine state and agreed reluctantly. They _had_ just cleaned up, after all.

"I'll tell you what," said Susan. "Go put on your gown. I thought I saw a couple of things that needed to be altered last night. And thanks to _someone's_ early morning tendencies-" Lucy bobbed a curtsey "-we have time to take care of them."

Lucy, who hadn't noticed anything but trusted Susan's judgement in these matters, grinned, thanked Susan, and darted off to do just that.

Susan, meanwhile, changed out of her own soaking robe and pyjamas into her everyday clothes, and set up the sewing machine in the living room. When Lucy emerged - the dress even more beautiful in the early morning sunlight streaming through the windows than the previous night in the dim, wan light of the shop - Susan saw immediately that both the skirt and the sleeves needed to be shortened. Once they had marked where they should end to fit Lucy, she changed into a clean outfit borrowed from Susan, and an hour and a half or so passed in companionable silence.

They finished at precisely 9:15, about twenty minutes before Lucy had to leave to get to Frognal station to meet Peter and Edmund. Susan maintained a sort of fixed cheerfulness when the meeting was mentioned, grimly determined not to sour a good time spent with her sister.

The cab was called duly, and Lucy picked up the brown package that once again held her precious gown. "Well, 'bye," she said as the cab pulled up to the curb in front of them. "And thank you!"

Susan then did something almost unheard of: she made a decision on impulse. "I think I'll go with you," she said. Then, seeing the expression on Lucy's face, quickly amended. "As far as the station, anyway."

The cabbie honked impatiently, and they slid into the back seat. "Frognal, please," said Lucy, and the taxi swung away from the curb. The drive was short, but interesting. The heaps of perfect white snow on every corner and in front of every window were nothing short of picturesque, even if the gritty grey slush around the tires wasn't. The snowclouds of the previous day were quite gone, and the sky was startlingly blue. The ride was over almost too soon.

The driver named the fare, and Lucy paid him before opening the door a crack. "You're sure you won't come?"

Susan almost said yes. The station was just there, and so were her brothers and cousin and friends. Lucy was begging with her eyes. She hesitated just a moment. . .

And the cabbie leaned over the seat. "'Ere, now, miss, if you two want to chat, that's fine with me, but do it with the door closed, see?"

"I'm very sorry," Susan said quickly. "Not this time, Lu."

Her sister was crestfallen, but she nodded crisply and climbed out. "'Bye, Susan! Love you!" The door closed.

Susan watched her go, waving out the window until the bright shock of golden hair was quite out of sight. But she could not completely suppress the twing of regret as the taxi drove her back home. Maybe next time. . .

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A/N: So I meant to have this done by May at the very latest. What can I say? I'm a world-class procrastinator.

Just a quick note or two...

First- I know next to nothing about post-war culture in England, and Google wasn't much help in the matter. If anyone knows of any sites with information on this topic, I'd be very grateful for a link.

Second- Auntie was a nickname for the BBC. Maybe still is. Couldn't tell you. It morphed into Auntie Beeb later, and then just Beeb, but this is before Queen, so I'm sticking with Auntie. And I didn't get that from Google. I got it from Wikipedia. (Why can't I make smileys work on here? Sigh...)

Reviews make me very happy! Thankee!


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